Crimes and Misdemeanors
by Spectering
Summary: Harvey and Donna witness a crime and it forces them to confront a lot of unresolved issues. AU
1. Prologue (Or Secrets and Lies)

This is an AU story. Harvey and Donna witness a crime and are forced to confront a lot of unresolved things in the process. If you go to the story on AO3 then you can get a little peak at a pic for the story.

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Harvey Specter is growing increasingly impatient and tired of the crowd surrounding him; he is counting down the seconds until he has been there the appropriate amount of time before can leave. He's known Joanna for most of his life and felt it only polite to make an appearance to her engagement party – it is only her second marriage, after all. However, the company she keeps is, simply put, just not his cup of tea. These are artsy people, discussing all of the humanity they inhibit and all of the ways they think they can change the world with their do-gooding, volunteer work, and charity. They discuss their favorite films (International Indie films, of course) with their glasses of wine and raccoon eyes and eyelashes too long to be anything other than fake. He just isn't destined to be here for longer than necessary. This crowd drives him crazy. He is basically a fish out of water, standing in the corner by the plant, sipping on a half-rate mixed drink that Andrew, Joanna's fiancé, handed to him nearly half an hour ago.

Harvey downs his drink with the full intent on leaving the party and leans forward to discard his glass on the nearest table when a reflection in the window catches his attention. He shifts his gaze fully to the reflection, but the flash of red sneaks away in the opposite direction as him. Harvey tightens his grasp on his glass and follows the ghost of the woman into the kitchen for a refill. It is there in the kitchen that he finds the object of his attention – no, the woman who has his intrigue. He sets his glass on the kitchen island as she fishes something out of the refrigerator and begins to silently refill his glass (his taste buds are already screaming at him for the selection), and he waits for her to say something to him. He silently pleads with her to call attention to him, to notice his presence. He always figured she was just accustomed and well in tune with his aura by now.

She hasn't noticed him yet, but then again he supposes that with her head buried in the refrigerator she just hasn't had the opportunity. His glass has more than enough cheap alcohol in it to tie him over for a week when the woman pulls back and looks at him. She jumps in her skin and shuts the appliance door, looking him dead in the eye and narrowing her gaze.

"You scared the shit out of me," she says then.

He smirks and sets the bottle of Svedka Vodka on the counter beside his glass. "You're losing your touch."

"How long have you been stalking me?" She asks, fingers pinching a few grapes before she pops one in her mouth.

"Donna," he replies simply, like she's being ridiculous. She raises her eyebrow, her gaze sharpening on his as he lifts his glass to his mouth and takes a sip. He winces when the clear liquid touches his taste buds. He swallows, relents as she takes a drink from her own glass. "I just saw your reflection in the window a few moments ago."

"How'd you know it was me?" She baits.

He sighs and says, "These are your kind of people."

"What kind of people is that?"

"Artsy, theatre type," he says as though it's completely obvious.

"Ah, right," she says. There's a long silence between them as she chomps on her grapes and he examines his glass. Her gaze suddenly narrows on him and he's aware of just how tight the knot of his tie actually is. "How do you end up at a party like this anyway?"

"I've known Joanna since I was a kid," he says, like she should already know that. He thinks that she knows everything else about him, how does she not know that. His eyebrows knit together as he lightly shakes his head. "Do you think I've been here long enough?"

"Leaving me already?" She teases.

He swallows and his saliva is thick. "Hardly. I just…" He trails off for a few moments and pauses, trying to find the words, but they never come to him. He sighs. "I don't really belong here, do I?"

"You're right," she replies decidedly, "this isn't really your scene."

"Even the alcohol isn't my taste," he replies.

She laughs at him, his muscles in his face practically frozen in a cringe from the alcohol; "I'll give you that. They are fairly cheap when it comes to alcohol," she says, "but I know where they keep the expensive stuff. Come on."

He follows her lead rather closely and he finally realizes that she's wearing something different from what she'd been wearing at work all day. The dress she's in is a light blue to contrast her fire colored hair and her perfume is fresh on her skin, overwhelming like she's trying to turn heads. He really doesn't think she needs any help in that department.

Joanna and Andrew's apartment is on the fifteenth floor and has a rustic look. They have paintings everywhere, lighting that makes him question their taste, and their appliances are a cross between brand new to them and so old they sound rickety when they're working. Harvey doesn't understand how people can live this way but he's afraid to mention it for fear that he offends the women he's already on shaky ground with. He follows her into a room where nothing else in the apartment can be heard and she grabs a bottle from a shelf before reaching for him. He feels her hand wrap around his wrist and tug on him. He silently follows her through slim hallways until they reach an iron staircase. It squeaks when she steps on it and he gasps behind her.

"How do you know your way around this place so well?" He asks, confused and grabbing the handrails in an attempt to steady himself on the worn staircase.

She glances at him over her shoulder and says, "Oh, I used to live here."

"What?" He says, nearly shrieking. "When did you live here? I've known you thirteen years and you've always lived in that same little apartment."

"Hey," she warns, pushing against a door as it pops open, "don't knock my little apartment. It's home and it's rent controlled."

He steps onto the concrete and suddenly finds himself outside. It's cold due to the fact that it's the beginnings of winter and he isn't wearing ample amount of layers. He's more worried about her though, arms bared to the stinging wind without any warmth in sight. He sees her shiver and he sighs.

"You never answered the question," he points out.

"Andrew and I were married fifteen years ago," she says with a shrug, like it isn't a big deal.

Her confession nearly knocks him off of his feet. He rocks on his heels and stutters with his thoughts in his head. He's met Andrew a few times and, although a theatre geek, the man just isn't cut out to go toe to toe with a woman like Donna Paulsen. He's meek, cheesy and, in Harvey's opinion, not nearly impressive enough for Donna. She deserves classy, flashy, and accomplished.

"That's…" he starts but pauses. He doesn't understand how she can keep this from him for 15 years. He stares at her long and hard, trying to process everything. He blinks a few times. He finally says, "…surprising."

"I'll have you know that many a men have wanted to marry me," she replies.

"That's not," he starts, pausing to sigh and roll his eyes, "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

He lightly shakes his head, defeated that he's held on to any hope for so long. He smiles tightly and throws his shoulders back. He says, "I just didn't realize that you've ever loved someone enough to marry them."

She laughs then, the sound boisterous in contrast with the night air. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. She shakes her head in protest. "It's not like that. I was young and it was Spring Break senior year."

"I knew you had a wild side," he replies, "I just didn't know you were such a risk taker."

"We were best friends and roommates, Harvey. We'd never even had a romantic relationship. When we got back from Spring Break, we had an annulment and I moved out," she explains.

His chest tightens. He's annoyed. He doesn't know why he's so annoyed because it isn't like she had an obligation to tell him. He expels a breath. He says, "If you had an annulment then you were never technically married."

"Fair point," she replies with a smile.

She extends the unopened bottle to him and he slowly takes it. He doesn't think it's a good idea to be here anymore. He shifts the bottle from hand to hand before stepping forward and setting it on the ledge. He smiles sadly then. Slowly dragging a hand through his hair, causing his perfectly coiffed hair to shift out of its place, he takes a step back.

"I just," he says, fingers tapping at his sides, "I guess I didn't realize you had someone you had difficulty getting over."

"Harvey, I-"

"No really, Donna, it's fine. It's not any of my business. It never really has been," he says, putting more space between them. He leans back on his heels, resting his weight on his knees, trying to figure out how he should respond. "You don't owe me an explanation."

"We didn't even sleep together, Harvey. We were slightly codependent and when it got too far I got out," she says.

It hits him then. He swallows the thick lump in his throat, narrows his gaze on her, and he balls his hands into fists. He wants to punch something. God forbid she actually sticks around to see anything to fruition. He absently licks his lips and shakes his head as his jaw tightens.

He says, "Like you got out of us."

"There was never an us," she replies.

"Yes there was," he says evenly, "Whether either of us actually acknowledged it there was an us. We were a team, an equal partnership that consisted of longevity and happiness with maybe a little too much codependency, I admit, but we kept it professional. I didn't pressure you to do anything that you didn't want to do. I respected you. I thought the world of you, I still do, but you walked away. Not me."

"It was hardly professional, Harvey," she corrects, "You told me that you love me."

"I can't do this," he says.

He feels his chest tighten and he takes off back inside, fumbling down the stairs and winding back through hallways until he finds the crowd of needy people. He bounds for the door, not bothering to glance back over his shoulder, muttering excuses as he pushes passed people to leave the tight space. He doesn't bother waiting for the elevator and opts for taking the stairs.

He's sweating by the time he gets downstairs. His head is dizzy and he can't seem to walk straight anymore. He lays his hand on the brick wall to keep himself upright, walking at a pace that somewhat resembles molasses. He hears her heels clapping against the concrete and he gives up, pressing his back against the wall and letting the cold brick soothe the heat on his neck.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" She bites. Her fingertips push into either side of his neck as her thumbs direct his chin upright, forcing him to look her directly in the eye. His throat feels like it is closing so he reaches up and loosens the knot in his tie. "Harvey, look at me."

"I can't breathe," he says, sucking in deep breaths.

Her heels make up the small gap in their height, making her nose aligned with his top lip, and he can feel the heat from her breath touch his face. He's still fiddling with the tie, finally bringing up his other hand to pull out the knot and throw his tie to the ground. He finally lifts his gaze to look at her, her thumb pressing against his lip and dragging across his mouth.

"What's going on?" She asks, calmer this time.

"Nothing," he answers, unconvincingly, "I'm fine. Just give me a minute."

Her lips roll, the grasp on his jaw loosening as her hands trail to his shoulders. He watches her throat bob as she swallows. She says, "Are you mad at me?"

"No," he says, "I just…" He pauses for a moment, mustering his breath and shaking his head. He says, "You can't keep bringing up what I said if you don't want to give whatever I say a chance. Yes, I told you I love you. But you told me you love me too before you walked away. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I don't know," she admits.

He stands a little straighter, his breathing finally regulating. He says, "You made a choice, Donna. Obviously it's not working for me, but it's what you wanted."

"I wanted you to be happy," she replies. She looks appalled, like she can't believe he would think such a thing of her. He still holds her in the highest regard.

The wind picks up for a moment, the beads of sweat on his forehead becoming cold droplets of water, and he notices a figure run by. He shakes it off, forces his attention back on her again. He says, "I'm not happy, Donna. I'm struggling here and I don't even know what you want from me anymore."

He lifts his gaze over her shoulder and watches the red tail lights of a vehicle brighten in the distance. Out of his peripheral vision he sees her glare at him before she follows his gaze. The vehicle slows to a stop and he looks around to see if there is anyone else lurking nearby.

It happens in a flash. They hear a burst of noise, a harsh pop echoing down the empty street, like firecrackers going off relentlessly. He barely has a moment to digest what he's hearing before he shields her, capturing her between himself of the brick of the building. He can't breathe without her but he sure as fuck can protect her at all costs. His elbows slam against the masonry, the wind being knocked out of her as she inhales sharply against his neck where he's created a refuge for her.

Vehicle tires squeal and take off. As he glances at the spot the vehicle was at over his shoulder all he can see is one red light disappearing around the corner, the other one already gone. He shifts his gaze back to her, looking at her carefully as he runs his hands through her hair and over her neck.

She looks up at him and he thinks she looks so small, so inhibited. He swallows, breathing heavily as he finally allows himself to release the breath he's been holding. He absently licks his lips as their eyes finally connect, speaking without words.

"You okay?" He asks. His voice sounds shaky, his terror overflowing at the seams as he searches her watery gaze for answers. She nods slowly but she seems to be at a loss for words. He pushes her hair back from her face and quickly looks around. When he looks at her again, she has slightly widened eyes and pursed lips. "I'm okay."

As he says this, sirens can be heard in the distance. He slides his hand behind her neck, her hands coming up to grasp the lapels of his suit. He looks at her, traces the outlines of her features and tries to gauge just how shell shocked he is. He hopes to god she doesn't cry because that's his sweetest fucking downfall.

He hears another noise and lunges forward, pulling her head into his chest again as he hunches over to protect his face. He takes in a deep breath, the mixture of her perfume and hair products taking over his senses and relaxing him. She smells a mixture of coconut and ocean water. He hasn't been to the beach in far too long. He definitely needs a vacation after this.

It takes a few moments for him to register that the noise is actually a squeak that belongs to the hinges of the door for Andrew and Joanna's apartment building. Her fingers slip beneath his collar as she clings to him. He lifts his head and follows the noise, his gaze landing on Andrew as he rushes over.

"Is everything alright?" He asks, "What's going on here?"

"Did you call nine-one-one?" Harvey immediately replies, "We heard gun shots."

"Yeah, Joanna was calling when I came down to see what was going on," Andrew says, "Donna, are you okay?"

"She's fine," Harvey barks.

His hands settle on her waist as he pulls her into a standing position as he straightens. Andrew reaches for Donna, but Harvey holds her closer. Her hands slide down his arms then and she promptly pulls back from him. Harvey and Andrew both look at her quizzically as she lifts her hand in front of her face. Her fingertips shake for a few moments before her gaze shifts towards Harvey.

"Oh my god," she mutters, "Harvey, you're bleeding."

"What?" He asks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. The sirens sound closer now. She lifts her hand in front of his face and he pulls back to get a better look at her hand. There's red blood smeared across her palm. "Shit."

She tugs on his lapels, pulling him beneath the street lamp, and pushes his jacket off of his shoulders. He hisses as he begins to feel a sting in his arm, his jacket hitting the ground with a resonating thud. Red and blue lights bounce off of the shadows as various vehicles appear on the street. She's already unbuttoning his shirt when two cop cars screech to a halt and pop their doors open.

"Everybody freeze," a man's voice bellows.

"He's bleeding," Donna yells, continuing to unbutton his shirt, "I think he was shot."

He looks at Donna then and he realizes she's intensely focused on her task, tears sliding down her cheeks. His lips part, wanting to reassure her, but he doesn't know what to say not with a bunch of men pointing their guns at him. So instead, he turns slightly to position himself between them and her. He must protect her.

"We're unarmed," Harvey calls over his shoulder, "We were out here talking when someone ran passed us. There might be someone hurt up ahead."

The government officials move to their positions, working away as Donna yanks his button up off of him and pushes the sleeve of his t-shirt up his arm to get a look at his skin. He takes in a deep breath as police run over to check with them before they lead him over to the ambulance for medical support. Donna isn't far behind as the police separates them to ask them a few questions.

He sits quietly in the back of the ambulance as the paramedic patches him up and he watches Donna carefully to make sure she's okay. So much has happened in just the span of a few minutes and now the party from upstairs is starting to file onto the street. His wound stings as the paramedic determines that he was luckily only grazed by a ricocheted bullet, but unluckily there was a man a few yards ahead on the sidewalk who had been killed.

Donna makes her way over after a few minutes and smiles sadly. He swallows and he keeps his mouth shut, not really sure what he should say. She blindly reaches for his left hand which he allows her to take, feeling comforted that she is at least okay. He looks up at her as the paramedic covers his wound with gauze and tapes it to his skin.

Donna hands him his clothes that were tossed to the ground. He takes it from her with his wounded arm. He says, "Thanks. You sure you're okay?"

She nods slowly before looking directly at the young woman in a white shirt with blue gloves on who is currently tending to his wound. Donna asks, "Is he going to be okay?"

"The bullet grazed him. He'll be fine. The wound just needs to be cleaned every other day but other than that he's a trooper," she replies.

Donna nods and the woman leaves them alone. He shivers as he looks up at her again, pushing himself into a standing position as he clutches his white button up shirt, suit jacket and tie to his torso. She pries his white shirt from his fingers and helps him put it back on.

"You'll have some trouble with your tie for awhile," she says as she buttons his shirt.

He smiles softly and nods in acknowledgement. He's sure he'll be able to take care of the tie. He'd opted not to go to the hospital to get stitches despite the recommendation of the paramedic because he doesn't see the need to baby the wound. In his defense, he didn't even know he'd been hurt until Donna had pointed it out.

Just as he opens his mouth to say something, a man in a light gray suit makes his way over. The suit is too tight and doesn't fit the man properly and Harvey considers suggesting his tailor to the man, but instead he bounces his gaze back to Donna who has acquired his tie and is currently playing with it in her hands.

"I'm sorry, Mister and Misses Specter," the man says.

"Oh, we're not married," Harvey replies quietly.

The man smiles tightly and tucks his hands into his pocket. Harvey watches him shrug half-heartedly like the man couldn't care either way. His arm is starting to feel heavier now. "My apologies. Would you two mind coming down to the station to answer a few more questions?"

"Aren't you going to read us our rights first?" Donna asks. Her voice sounds teasing but he can hear the shake in it.

The man offers her a sleazy smile. "You aren't under arrest," he reassures, "We just wanted to sit down with you and get a little more clarification."

"Donna," Harvey says, reaching out with his left hand to lightly touch her shoulder; she twists his tie in her hands, "It's fine. Lucky for you, you've got your lawyer right here."

She nods slowly. He pushes a hand into her back to direct her towards the unfamiliar yet put together man. She begrudgingly takes the hint and follows the man, but Harvey stays close behind. She glances at him over her shoulder and he impulsively offers her a reassuring smile, his fingertips hovering over the small of her back.

"I have a bad feeling about this," she admits.

The man leads them to a black vehicle. Harvey thinks the vehicle reminds him of the _Knight Rider_ vehicle, a little, round, button shaped siren sitting on the dashboard and orbiting with a red and blue glow. He wonders how a detective could afford a knock off version of this vehicle but he thinks it's better not to poke the bear. They are a few steps behind the man with a cheap suit and she's behaving quite timid.

"We didn't do anything wrong," he says. He notices she left her purse inside. He reaches into his pocket for his phone as the man opens the door to the backseat of his vehicle. She climbs into the vehicle before he can make a move to do so. He slips her his phone and says, "Text Jessica and tell her to meet us at the police station."

"You can sit up front," the man says as Harvey begins to slide into the backseat beside her. Harvey looks at Donna and gives her a solid nod. He thinks he can see the light flicker in her eyes, the reds and blues bouncing off of her glazed over eyes. He lightly touches her shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly. "You're not under arrest."

Harvey's fingers linger on her shoulder for just a second longer as the detective moves to the driver's side of the vehicle. He smiles tightly and steps back, putting some space between them. She clutches his phone in her hand and paints on a smile. He can tell she's trying to be brave. He shuts the door then and moves to the front seat, his right arm becoming stiffer now that the adrenaline has subsided.


	2. Act I: Hits and Misses

**_Okay, so I worked really long and hard on this and I would appreciate some kind of response regarding your thoughts/feelings/concerns. I know that this chapter will probably be a little boring, but stick with it because there are a lot of issues that are brought up in this chapter alone that need to be fleshed out in the next chapter for sure._**

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She absently taps on the cool, metal table, a habit ingrained deep within her after years of intimidating by keeping her hands busy. The echo bounces off of the walls, the faint noise of nails grinding against metal lingering in the confinements of the room they're locked in. They've been waiting for the detective to return for what feels like forever especially for two people who aren't under arrest. She realizes that they haven't spoken in a while.

She looks to her right then, catching sight of him cringing as he extends his right arm to rest it on the table. She smiles sadly, her mind not quite wrapping around the events of the evening. And to think, she didn't even want to come to this engagement party. She'd rather be sitting on the couch with a glass of wine and _Murphy Brown_ reruns.

His tie is hanging loosely over his shoulders, the knot nowhere to be found. She thinks he's probably feeling out of sorts, like he doesn't belong with his suit torn up, tie with wrinkles, his hair disheveled. She narrows her gaze on him, realizing that he looks different, looks more rugged with a gritty five o'clock shadow. The creases in his suit even suggest that he's worn the suit more than once without it visiting the dry cleaners.

She purses her lips as she stands, unable to see him so unlike himself. His eyes follow her movement, silently questioning her. He reaches for her, his hand wrapping around her wrist as his gaze softens. Her gaze falls to his lips, studying him for any kind of hint as to what exactly is going on with him. She's heard war stories around the office but she didn't want to believe them.

He turns slightly in his seat. She expertly slips between him and the table, her fingers blindly reaching for his tie as she looks at his eyes again. He nods gently and drops his left hand to his lap. She begins to form the knot in his tie, her hands finding a new activity to keep them busy. Ever since she was a child she has never been able to sit very still.

"So," she starts. She swallows, deciding against continuing any further. She shakes her head in protest, in apology, for not daring to press him for any answer.

She absently traces his features, the contours of his face looking more jagged than she remembers, his throat bobbing as he swallows. He says, "Donna, talk to me."

She secures the knot in his tie as she locks eyes with him again. Her fingers slide down the length of his tie attempting to edge out the wrinkles. Her attempt fails and the wrinkles only seem more prominent now than before. He smiles reassuringly but it doesn't touch his eyes.

She's worried about him. She hasn't allowed herself to think about him or his well being much. She's been busy distracting herself with other things – drinks with friends, harmless dates with avid theatre lovers like herself, rereading old plays she'd long ignored. They keep her mind occupied as well as possible.

"What was that earlier?" She sounds shaky, uncertain.

They've never really been on uncertain terms before. She's never really seen him less than perfect. Sure, there are moments that he's faltered and been not quite perfectly put together, but those moments have been rare and his shoulders have still been thrown back cockily. He seems different somehow.

"I'm sorry, I…" he trails off. She thinks it sounds like a question. She quickly realizes that he's playing stupid.

"Harvey, don't be facetious," she replies evenly. She stands then and returns to her seat, the metal chair still warm from before her vacating it. The hours are wearing on her, are making her forget the lines that separated them. She angles her body away from him and stares straight ahead, unable to look at him any longer. "You couldn't breathe."

"I've just been having some trouble," he starts slow. He's quieter than normal, the volume of his voice is almost inaudible, but she doesn't dare look at him. She nods slowly, silently hoping that he explains further. She hears him sigh but she still doesn't turn her head towards him. She flattens her palms out against the table as he says, "I've been having anxiety attacks."

Her breath catches in her throat. How could she have not known that the man she had spent 60 hours a week, 52 weeks a year for 12 years is suffering from anxiety attacks? How could this have gotten under her radar? Right, because she's been actively focusing on anything but him for the last 3 and a half months.

She swallows then. She says, "For how long?"

He's silent for a few moments. The silence makes her bones ache. A pen could drop in the next room and she could hear it. She's pretty sure at this point that literally everyone in the precinct is listening in on their conversation, has gone silent and is waiting on eggshells to hear his answer. He huffs there, a lifetime of anticipation weighing heavily on her shoulders.

"Three and a half months," he says.

She feels like she's been punched in the gut. The timeline cannot possibly be coincidental. She feels responsible for his mental stability. She never wanted him to break down over her in any way. She swallows and tilts her chin upwards, reclaiming a sense of strength she doesn't even remotely feel.

"What happened?" She asks.

He says, "Everything inside of me is all jumbled up. I don't really know how to answer that question."

She's taken aback for a moment, not quite sure what to do with this man sitting beside her. He is a stranger – a Harvey Specter without all of the answers, without a quick response, without a knack for evading her, is not a Harvey Specter she is innately familiar with. She puckers her lips for a moment, toying with an endless amount of possibilities sitting beside her.

She lets the words sit on her tongue, burrowing deep into the palpable tension somewhere beneath all her taste buds. She tastes it, all of the bitterness and desperation in the air between them. She doesn't like it. She doesn't know what any of it means.

"I didn't mean to-"

"I know," he interjects. The silence that follows cuts her deep. She should have known better; she should have known…something. His hand slides across the table, his skin squeaking against the metal. His hand hovers over hers for a moment, the heat from his palm touching her skin and stinging her there. The thickness of the air between them makes her withdraw her hands, hiding them in her lap. He says, "I know you didn't mean to hurt me. Not that you did. I mean, even if you did, it wasn't what you were trying to do. I was just…kidding myself."

She slides her gaze towards him. She opens her mouth to respond but she doesn't have a proper retort. Instead, her mouth hangs open for a few moments, staring at him as his brown eyes darken and his hands retreat back to his vicinity. She closes her mouth, absently wondering what he means but too uncertain to ask for clarification. She swallows then and just as she's prepared to say something, anything that willingly falls out of her mouth, the door opens.

"Thanks for waiting," the man in the cheap suit says.

Donna notes the wrinkles. She compares every suit to Harvey's now just out of habit. Though her partner in witnessing a crime's suit looks more tired than normal, his is still notably better put together. Harvey nods slowly which prompts Donna to shift her eyes to the owner of the voice.

"Is everything all right?" Harvey asks.

The man smiles and takes off his suit jacket. He rests it on the back of the chair across from them before taking a seat. He says, "I'm Detective Garrett and I've been assigned to investigate your case."

"Our case?" Donna says, confused.

Harvey lifts his palm off of the table but doesn't make any more movements. She sees this as him telling her to let him handle it. She concedes because he certainly still knows what he is doing in this department. She keeps her hands firmly positioned in her lap, not really sure what to do with them anymore.

"We're innocent bystanders," Harvey reiterates, "What do you mean _Our Case_?"

"The targeted victim was a member of the cartel, Mister Specter," Detective Garrett replies, "And based off of the information Miss Paulsen provided about the vehicle it seems that the people involved in the murder are members of an opposing gang."

"Which one?" Harvey challenges. She turns her head and watches his gaze sharpen, the lines on his face contorting in such a way that she is almost fearful on this Detective Garrett's behalf.

"The specifics are irrelevant, Mister Specter. What's important here is that you two are in some serious trouble," the man replies.

Harvey grunts in response. He says, "Has my lawyer arrived yet?"

"Your lawyer?"

"If I'm in trouble then I won't speak to you without my lawyer present," Harvey replies.

Detective Garrett leans back in his chair and Donna finally looks at him, fully looks at him. His chiseled jaw is littered with patches of a 5 o'clock shadow. His hair is dark, eyes a brilliant blue. His lips are thin, his gaze is intense. He's young, she can tell by the lack of wrinkles in his features and the way that he looks too cocky like he's God's gift to earth. Donna doesn't trust this guy but she has to. She thinks Harvey wants her to.

Detective Garrett laughs quietly in the back of his throat, lightly shaking his head in disagreement. He says, "Are you aware that you witnessed a murder of one of the cartel's mid-level men by none other than the prominent mob men that have been hiding their dirty work behind legitimate businesses for years?"

"Shit," Harvey says slowly. She snaps her gaze to him then. She doesn't know what that means, but it doesn't sound good. She sees the worry lines creep onto Harvey's forehead, his eyes drifting closed. He sighs then, obviously more aware of what this means than her. "You're telling me that we were present for the murder of a cartel by the men who eliminate their witnesses?"

"Yes," Detective Garrett says.

"Wait," Donna says suddenly, "What does this mean?"

"To put it delicately," Harvey says, "We're fucked."

"What?" She baits for clarity. She thinks she's too young to die.

"The way I see it," Detective Garrett interjects, "We have two options here. The first being that we can chance it, go on with our lives, and see how this all pans out in hopes that nobody knew you were there."

Donna inhales a sharp breath. Harvey's gaze narrows on Detective Garrett. He says, "And the second option?"

"Witness protection," Detective Garrett replies. He hesitates and she finds herself looking between the two men in the room. Harvey's lips purse together like he's considering the possibility. Harvey wouldn't leave work for an undefined amount of time. She watches Harvey as he pushes his lips together, his eyes squinting at the younger man challengingly. "By removing you from the city you are ensuring that your life is no longer at risk. They will find out who you are and they will come after you."

"Detective Garrett," Harvey says forcefully, "I don't know if you know who I am, but I can't just skip town for no reason. But this woman here, she's the most wonderful person I know and she needs to be protected at all costs. Take her out of here. Protect her. If anything happens to her, I will sue you, not the city, but you personally."

"Harvey," she says then. Something comes over her, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. He's already been hurt and she couldn't stand it if anything else happened to him. She reaches over then and lightly covers his hand with her own. She slips her fingers between his and shakes her head when he fully looks at her. His lips part in a question he does not speak. "I don't want to go without you. I couldn't stand it if something happened to you."

"Donna," he says evenly.

"Harvey," she says before he can continue, "You're already hurt. You can't even put a knot in your tie without my help."

"I'll have my secretary do it," he replies flippantly with a shrug from his left shoulder.

She sighs then, the annoyance building up. "No, you idiot, I don't want anything to happen to you," she says, "Come with me."

"Come with you?" He repeats slowly. "Donna, I'm-"

"Please," she says. She hears herself and she sounds so small, so desperate.

He stares at her for a long time. His lips are parted again. His eyes are creased around the edges as he studies her. He swallows after what feels like a lifetime and slowly nods his head in agreement.

"Okay," he says, "I'll come with you."

* * *

They've been in the care of New York's finest for a good 5 hours by now, and counting.

Harvey really didn't like the idea of them splitting up. If they were going to do this then they were going to 100% do it together. So no separate vehicles to take them to their respective apartments to pack their individual items to take on their undefined time away from everyone else they know. They'd been forced to turn off their cell phones and hand them over to the detective, told that they can't contact anyone to let them know what's going on. Reluctantly, he had complied, but getting Donna to agree had been damn near World War III. He just smirked throughout the struggle because he wasn't the least bit surprised.

They're halfway to Philadelphia where they will board a plane and be escorted to their super-secret destination. No one knows where they are and no one knows where they will be. Not even them. In retrospect, the hour and a half at the crime scene, the two hours at the police station, and the hour it took to pack their bags at their respective apartments had been tiring to say the least.

And they've only been headed towards their hand off point for 30 minutes but Donna's already asleep – with her head on his shoulder and her hand on his thigh. It's fine, really. After the events of the day, he no longer has the energy to fight it. He feels his bones cramp up as he feels the needs to remove some of the weight off of his right arm which is now in a sling. He doesn't really understand what the sling's actual purpose is.

Harvey lifts his gaze to the police officers in the front seat, the one in the passenger seat snoozing away as the driver absently thrums on the steering wheel. The driver is listening to shitty music that Harvey would guess is considered alternative rock. He hopes that no one touches his records while they're gone. He wishes he could have contacted Jessica, she never did show up at the police station, and asked her to lock his office. If one thing is missing when they return he will destroy every single person in that office.

Donna shifts suddenly and he takes the moment to expel a breath. He stretches his right arm out to remove the cramp and inadvertently lets out a groan. He's haunted with aches.

"What is it? Are you okay?" He hears, hushed and rushed, from beside him. He's startled by the sound of her whisper. It sounds rough, laden with sleep, but also concerned. She clears her throat and sits up, pushing on his thigh. She quickly retracts her hand suddenly and his gaze lingers on the vacant place. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," he replies quickly, reassuringly, "I was just cramped up. Nothing you did."

"We'll have to change your bandage in a few hours," she says.

He looks over at her. The lights from the highway illuminate her features and glow behind her mess of hair. She changed into a pair of yoga pants and a loose fitting shirt with a picture of a tiger on it, the kimono from the night he was at her place thrown on top of it all for warmth. He finally registers what she said and he nods slowly.

"I can do that," he says.

"Don't be silly," she says, smile reigned to her lips, "You couldn't even change your shirt without my help."

He smirks then, masking the slight embarrassment. He'd successfully managed to change his pants and shoes, but when he'd gotten to the torso area he had struggled. He'd shrugged off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his dress shirt with no problem. It was his undershirt he had struggled with. After Donna unceremoniously saved him with changing his shirt, not to mention that tense moment when she had to stand between his legs and remove the white shirt to exchange it with a blue sweater, they were finally here. He'd hoped she wouldn't bring that up.

He swallows then as she moves away from him, a cold chill skating through his spine. He says, "That was just because the blood on my shirt was sticking to my skin. I won't need you the next time."

"They put in eight stitches," she gently argues. "No one thinks less of you because you need help changing your shirt."

"You enjoyed it," he counters with a smirk. "I didn't even have to go to the hospital, Donna. I'll be fine."

There's a lull that echoes with the sound of wheels on the road. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and he finds himself wishing that he'd been the one to do that. He peers around the officer in front of him and peeks at the road, the headlights becoming engulfed with the night sky. He can't catch a hint of where they are.

He taps the man in front of him on the shoulder and says, "How much longer before we get there?"

Donna promptly slaps him on the thigh. He recoils at the moment, his nerves jumping as he snaps his head towards her. Her gaze sharpens on him and the man sighs audibly. The man says, "another hour or two."

Harvey grunts in response and leans back into the seat again. He briefly closes his eyes as Donna pushes her palm along his leg, but he quickly recovers with a squirm. He shifts away from her, leaning against the door. As his arm presses against the door, he feels the sting and inhales sharply.

"Lean against me," she says quietly.

"I don't need you to take care of me," he replies.

"Don't be an idiot," she says. He leans more towards her to relieve the pressure off of his arm but he doesn't touch her. She tugs on his sleeve. He purses his lips together as he looks at her. "You look like you're exhausted and in pain. I don't mind."

"Or what? You'll fall asleep on me again?"

He watches her smirk then, a feature that isn't completely unlike his own. She says, "I didn't hear you complaining."

She scoots across the seat and presses herself against the door, patting on her leg. This backseat really isn't big enough for the both of them. But his arm screams in pain and it makes him squeeze his eyes shut tight for a brief moment. He nods slowly before peeling his eyes open again. He feels humiliated and a little nervous.

He succumbs to her requests and lies on over, resting his temple on her thigh as he crushes his left arm against the seat. He feels one of her hands slide through his hair, teasing the remainder of hair product out of it, and her other hand presses against his right elbow for a brief moment before sliding down his arm to his hand. Her palm covers the back of his hand before her fingers slide between his.

She expels a shaky breath and he shifts his gaze to the corners of his eyes to try to look up at her. He feels weird and invasive, like his vulnerability in this moment is making them into something they're not. Given his overreaction to the announcement that she was once married to this Andrew fellow and she never told him, he thinks it's safe to say that all of his unresolved issues are taking the helm.

He needs his walls. He misses his walls. He needs his therapist to tell him what to do. They have planned this far ahead. After only a month of treatment, he is terrified to brave Donna's realm without persistent guidance.

She says, "I'm scared, Harvey."

He finds himself swallowing and saying, "I'm with you."

* * *

The absence of her heels throws him off. She's at least 3 inches shorter so he has to tilt his chin downward to look at her rather than just looking straight ahead. Not to mention, she no longer has that soft echo following her as she moves about. It's only mildly disturbing in the sense that their casual demeanor is still unfamiliar.

Despite the unfamiliar circumstances, he still stays glued to her side as they beat the morning crowds to the Philadelphia airport. That doesn't mean fellow travelers aren't filing in like last call or anything. And, of course, they were told to wait patiently for Officer Grizwald to return with their tickets while Officer Lance loiters over them like a bouncer who wouldn't let them into the club. He can tell just by looking at her, with her arms crossed over her chest and the slightest hints of annoyance in her gaze, that it's a feeling she is unacquainted with.

He bumps his shoulder into hers in hopes of taking the edge off, that her determined go to hell look will falter in the slightest. It works as her lips slightly part and she looks up at him. Her chin tilts upward and he gets a better look at her long neck. He gulps as his eyes trail over the expanse of her skin and by the time he's looking directly at her mouth again, she is smirking.

"Take a picture," she mutters teasingly.

His cheeks become warm so he bows his head to conceal the dubious blush. He buries his hand into his pocket while he clutches his other arm close to his stomach, trying his damnedest not to move it so he can eliminate the pain. He reluctantly lifts his gaze back to her, lightly shaking his head in response. He pushes his tongue into his cheek for just a brief moment.

He says, "Ha ha, very funny."

"I'm the funniest person you know," she replies.

"After me," he corrects. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth at that. He smiles in silent celebration for lightening her mood. He shrugs half-heartedly, one arm almost immobilized. This is already getting on his nerves. "We'll get you some coffee once we get passed security to turn that frown upside down."

"You're losing your edge, Mister," she mutters.

His head snaps up and he teeters on his heels. He lightly shakes his head at her, twisting his right wrist in a feeble attempt to relieve pressure on his arm cramp. He says, "You don't have to be such a harsh critic all the time, Fire. Lighten up."

"The most uptight man I have ever met just told me to lighten up," she murmurs to herself. She shifts her gaze to him then and pops an eyebrow up on her forehead. A smile slyly slides over his mouth. "How are you embracing this with such open arms?"

"Sleep deprivation," he replies with a half shrug.

Luckily, Officer Grizwald returns with their tickets then and hands them over. Coupled with the tickets is state issued identification to match the names on their plane tickets. Harvey takes his and immediately takes the proffered documentation and struggles with having a look at the two forms of identification. After a few moments of struggling, Donna takes the ticket and new driver's license from him. His new identity is still a mystery to him.

"This is where we say goodbye," Officer Lance says.

"Good riddance," Donna immediately replies.

"Wait," Harvey says suddenly, confused by the plan, "You're just dumping us off without any hint as to what is going on?"

"Once you land at your destination an officer will escort you to your next location," Officer Grizwald supplies.

Harvey huffs in response and picks up his duffle bag from the ground. He slings it over his good shoulder and moves to pick up one of Donna's carry on bags. She stops him before he can actually grab the bag by the strap, her hand lingering on his wrist. He absently wonders how she's going to manage carrying everything with her two bags, their documents, and one of his bags.

He looks up at her then and says, "I can carry something."

She rolls her eyes while looking through all of their cargo at a rather indecisive pace. She settles on the documents in her hand as she extends them purposely to his right hand. His fingers flex as he begrudgingly accepts them. He wants to say something, to tell her that he isn't an invalid, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"I've got the rest," she replies.

"Donna," he says evenly, "Don't make me look like an ass."

She sighs and grabs all of the bags, grinning at him triumphantly. She says, "I'm not the one with an injury."

"Fair enough," he concedes.

He gives the officers a solid nod as Donna turns on her heels to head towards the gates, and he follows behind. He's unsettled as he watches her struggle with an overabundance of bags, but knows that he doesn't have the energy or the strength to fight with her. All he can do is offer to help her when he catches up to her. He takes a few long strides to catch up with her by the time they reach the escalator to the security check. Thankfully, the lines aren't too long with only three or four groups of people ahead of them.

Donna is anxious though. He can tell when he looks at her that she is not in the mood to deal with anyone else. She needs a coffee. And a half-rate bagel. God, he misses New York already. He has to lower his expectations on food and other goods.

"I can take another bag," he offers again. She huffs in annoyance. He knows that his excessive offering is getting on her nerves. She's being moody. He tilts his head slightly when she looks at him. He says, "Don't be moody. We'll get through these people then you can get your cappuccino."

"I just don't want you to overdo it," she admits.

He laughs gently, the line moving forward. He inches forward and levels himself with her, his hip lightly brushing against hers. His breath catches in his throat for a moment, the lump sticking at the back of his mouth like his muscles are too busy screaming in excitement. He feels like such a pussy.

He swallows then and says, "I'm ambidextrous."

She stares at him long and hard then, disbelief spreading across her face. She shakes her head and says, "No you're not. Don't even try to lie to me. I know you better than anyone."

"You don't know everything about me," he mumbles.

"Oh please," she says, her features mocking him.

He huffs, annoyed that none of their conversations are going anywhere. He remembers when he had been special, held a special place and been able to exist with her in a special way that no one else could. He shrugs then, conceding. He's in no mood to do this.

She finally sets the bags down on the floor beside them and reaches out to take the documentation out of his hand. She uses both of her hands, an ability that is currently making him feel the slightest hints of jealousy, to lift the tickets up and look through them. The ticket on top is his and tucked inside is a Pennsylvania driver's license. She extends the license to him and he takes it with his left hand.

While she looks at her own documentation, he takes a closer look at the driver's license. It says he has brown eyes, weighs 213 pounds, is 6 foot 1 inch, and was born July 2, 1976. It's partially right. His name is shown as Harvey Jones and his picture makes him look like a douche.

He peers over her shoulder just in time to catch enough details. Her birth date is listed as August 4th, which is true, and her last name screams with the same last name the government has given him. Finally, he thinks, the government does something right.

"Will you put these in your purse once we get through security?" He asks.

"Who do you think I am? Your mother?"

He's been through this with Dr. Agard many times:

 _Donna is **not** his mother. She is **not** his care taker. She is a woman who does **not** owe him anything. She was once his partner and now she is **not**. She was once his teammate but now she is **not** his teammate. It is a disservice to Donna to expect anything from her that he does **not** express in certain, verbal terms. If he truly respects her, he will **not** treat her like she owes him something. He will be respectful and considerate of her and her desires. She did **not** abandon him when she chose to put herself above him._

However, one small thought lingers: she asked him to be here with her.

He grins then and flicks his gaze to the moving line. She understands his non-verbal communication and moves forward. He pushes the bags forward with his feet to follow. He's missed being able to communicate with her without this huge verbal barrier. He aptly reminds himself that she is not an extension of him and she never was.

"I'm injured. Don't you want to be a good person and help me out?" He counters.

"Because I am a good person," she says, hard, a sigh dramatically escaping her lips, "I will hang on to your paperwork. For old time sake."

"Here's to the good times," he replies as he thumps his new identity against his thigh.

He thinks for a moment that he's gotten away with it before she shoots him a look. He can see sadness in her gaze, a resting piece of a puzzle seeming to miss in them. She extends his ticket to him and he takes it, quickly shifting it and his identification to his immobilized hand.

"Why didn't you take the sling? You look like an idiot," she comments. Their silent truce has been momentarily lifted. Or so he hopes it's only momentarily.

"You should be calling me your hero, not an idiot," he says. He reaches for her heavier bag as he motions forward with a gentle kick of his foot. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion at his balancing act. "You're next," he explains.

She nods and grabs the two small bags, one being his laptop bag and the other being a small carryon of hers large enough to pack her purse into it, before moving towards the podium at security. It takes only a few moments before it's his turn and he juggles the two bags and his documentation. He flicks his wrist forward to hand the man his plane ticket and driver's license.

When the woman glares at him, he smiles sheepishly. He explains, "I have stitches in my arm." The woman's jaw clenches as she takes the items from his hand. He fights a groan as the movement ricochets up his nerves and to his wound.

Once she looks at the identification and back at him numerous times, she finally signs off on the ticket and extends it to him. As though testing him, she holds it just out of his reach. His face falls and his jaw tenses to match hers. Turns out, all women are moody. He reaches for it and groans as he does, not even bothering to conceal his pain verbally. He narrows his gaze at her as snatches the necessities as best as his arm can muster.

He stamps towards Donna afterwards, immediately handing his driver's license and boarding ticker to her so she can stuff them into her purse. She looks at him with slightly parted lips, an eyebrow raised, silently baiting him to tell her what his sudden change in mood is. He lightly shakes his head in response. She nods in acknowledgement as she zips up her purse, reaching into his laptop bag for his laptop and putting it into a bin before kicking off her shoes and putting it into a bin with her purse.

He kicks off his own shoes and reaches down for them. She stops him again before he can actually grab them. He watches her as she carefully holds her camisole closed with one hand and reaches for his shoes with the other. Everything on her shifts forward, her shirt allowing a gap for him to get a peek down into it. He quickly closes his eyes and looks away. He hears her put his shoes into the bin with her items and he peels his eyes open.

He reaches forward with his left hand and lightly touches her waist, urging her forward. She recoils from his touch though like he's hurting her. He sighs in defeat as she etches forward to go into the detector. He realizes then that he'll have to throw his arm over his head and feels beads of sweat gather on his forehead. He manages to comply to the rules, but not without releasing a girlish moan. Donna looks up at him, terrified.

"I'm fine," he reassures, his face tightening, as he approaches her.

She jerks her head towards a bench as he grabs one of the bags and slings it over his shoulder. He grabs another one of their bags as she packs his laptop bag into his laptop bag and heads over to the benches. As he sits, she brings over his shoes, her shoes already on her feet and both of the smaller bags being carted by one of her hands.

"You know my bag has rollers, right?" She asks then.

"What?" He asks, blinking as he snatches his shoes from her grasp. "You're just now telling me your bag has wheels on it?"

He hesitates for a few moments before he shakes his head in annoyance. She would keep that information to herself. Just like she keeps everything else. He cradles his right arm gently as he puts his shoes on with his left hand. Of course he had to get shot by a wayward bullet.

"Our flight isn't for another forty-five minutes," she informs him, pushing the button on the handle of her bag and pulling it up. She drapes the strap from his duffle bag over the plastic as he stands. He takes his laptop bag from her then and throws the strap over his head across his body. "You already look like shit."

"You know you're supposed to be my loving wife, right?" He asks, a smirk sliding over his mouth as her eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"Like that's hard," she comments dismissively, "I already played that role for over a decade."

"Yeah, yeah," he teases. He walks close to her side as they move down the corridor towards their gate. Once they get to their gate, they find two open seats and dump their entire luggage. He reaches out and lightly touches her elbow to get her attention. He says, "I'll be right back."

"Okay," she replies with a firm nod.

He watches her take a seat before he wanders off towards the slowly opening Starbucks, digging into his pocket for some of the cash he was able to acquire at such short notice. The currency isn't much, but it will hopefully tie them over for a few weeks. Not that he knows any details about their new impending life.

He orders a coffee with a shot of vanilla and a shot of espresso, a croissant, and a double fat extra shot mocha cappuccino with triple whipped cream and caramel. He shakes his head at the idea of sugar overload and pays the woman behind the counter. A line starts to form behind him so he shifts out of the way and move to the pickup area. He rocks back and forth as his arm starts to cramp up again. He doesn't know why he feels so stiff.

He maneuvers his drink into his right hand and compiles Donna's drink and the croissant in the other. He's sure the delicacy of flavors will be much different than back home. He's beginning to feel out of sorts.

When he returns to their gate, Donna is leaning back in the seat with one leg crossed over the other and her elbow on the back of the chair, her head leaning against her hand. He sits in the seat directly beside her, her forearm colliding with his right shoulder. She peels her eyes open and looks at him, the beginnings of a glare quickly turning into excitement at the realization that he's brought her a drink.

"Is that for me?" She asks, pointing at the drink with her long finger. He gives her a nod and extends the drink and croissant to her. She smiles widely then, her mood changing immediately. "My hero. I could kiss you."

"Okay," he says without thinking.

His eyes widen just a bit at the realization of what he's said. He looks at her slowly. She swallows thickly, her throat bobbing as she does, and wraps her hand around the proffered items. She leans forward then and lightly presses her lips against his cheek, lingering a little low so he feels it on the corner of his mouth. He's in trouble.

She looks down at her drink, fingernails tapping against the Styrofoam. He settles into the seat, already wondering when this shuffling around will end. He doesn't think he can handle being stuck in such close proximity with her and not be in love with her anymore. He just wants it to be easier.

* * *

Donna feels relieved that they are at least sitting in first class. They got bumped during their layover in Denver. They had initially thought Denver was their destination but was rudely awakened by a TSA employee handing over another plane ticket for Los Angeles. She can tell that, even though he hasn't said so, Harvey is just as tired of the traveling as she is.

She's poised in the aisle seat while he's taken the window seat so no one can accidentally brush against his arm. He hasn't said so, but his old baseball injury has flared up which has made his arm much stiffer than it would be just from the gunshot graze. He's in a lot of pain but he's refused to do anything for it.

She looks over at him and his face is slightly contorted, teeth gritted together as he keeps any noise stifled. She swallows, feeling bad that he's caused himself so much pain because of her. She wonders if she should bring it up, the initial conversation that brought them here. He hasn't been much in the mood for talking though as their flight from Philadelphia to Denver was relatively silent.

He's exhausted and it isn't even noon yet. She's tired too but that coffee really perked her up. Plus, he is experiencing a pain that she isn't. They should have changed his bandage before they boarded the plane. She shifts her gaze back to the iPad in her lap and continues looking through _The New Yorker_. She's read over some brief short stories but nothing has really been all that interesting. The delays are eating away at her patience.

She thinks about how she is sitting beside a man that she was barely on speaking terms with. They play nice at work, maybe even pretend like nothing ever went wrong on occasion, but the truth is always lingering in the space between them. She's found herself continuously drawn to him, but she has forced herself to remain at a distance.

She has placated her own emotions for over a decade with him. She never thought over the course of the 12 years that they worked together that she had fooled herself into believing some kind of improbability. And her inability to acknowledge the fact the maybe she had some deep rooted feelings for her boss was a prime example on how she refuses to live in reality. She's always been drawn to the dramatics.

But her years of denial hadn't done her much good. And her separation from her boss, the man and the friend, had only brought her to a place where she has accepted that they are not anything more than colleagues. They have not communicated outside of the work place before tonight, just as she had suspected.

But with his revelation that he has been experiencing anxiety attacks since she left has made her think that he has perhaps tried to establish some kind of outer office relationship with her but she has rejected it time and time again. Ever since he told her that he has paid her salary all along, she has been livid at him and not much interested in interacting with him. Maybe the connection he wants with her runs a lot deeper than she realizes.

All this time she has thought that he hasn't wanted her. Harvey is a man who goes after what he wants without hesitation. Donna herself has said that Harvey has what he wants and what he doesn't have, he doesn't want. Living her life and making her decisions by that code has made her realize that if he wanted to be with her, then he would be. She knows he cares, maybe even cares about her more than he cares about anyone really, but if he were in love with her then he would be with her completely. That much about him is true, but when she accused him of being jealous so many times but never stopped to think what that could mean.

She flips to _The_ _New York Times_ on her iPad then and on the first thing on her screen is an article regarding the evening before. Her mouth drops open as her eyes skim over the article looking for anything regarding their description. But as she zooms into the picture accompanying the article, her breath catches in her throat and her heart stops beating.

"Oh my god," she says.

"What?" Harvey asks immediately, his voice rough and laden with sleep.

"This isn't good," she says.

She looks over at him then and his eyebrows are furrowed, his nose contorted in confusion. She lightly shakes her head. He says, "What is it, Donna? Just tell me."

"They can't do this, right?" She asks, thrusting the iPad in front of his face.

He takes the iPad from her then and squints to get a better look. She can see the anger inhabit his gaze; the piercing look crosses his features like the annoyance has been building everything to this very moment. She's seen the look a thousand times, but this has something different, something more feral.

"Did you read the article?" He asks.

"I skimmed it," she admits, "I'm honestly shocked."

"They called us unidentified sources and plastered our picture on the front page," he growls, "I'm going to sue them."

"You're going to sue _The New York Times_?" She asks. She hears her iPad chime then and she's terrified. He's going to kill her and sue _The New York Times_. He's going to go on a rampage. He shoots a glare at her. "Please, don't be mad."

"Why didn't you tell me that you texted Rachel?" He hisses in a low voice.

She recoils then, nearly colliding with a fellow traveler as they move down the aisle to their seat. She never did understand why they board first class first just so everyone can nearly plummet them with their bags. She snatches her iPad from his grasp then, his fingers left flexing. She's squirming beneath his scrutiny.

She huffs, shuffling her jaw on the hinges. She says, "I didn't want you to be mad. I knew we weren't supposed to and you're such a rule follower that you'd bite my head off."

"Donna," he replies evenly, "There is a reason we weren't supposed to let anyone know what's happening."

"I just didn't want anyone to think we were running away together," she says, a smirk making its way to her lips. He merely sharpens his gaze in response. She shuts her iPad off then and puts it back into her bag. "I don't want my family to freak out. You know how paranoid they are."

"Yeah, well, they have a reason to be paranoid," he mutters.

"Harvey, seriously, what's the big deal?"

His nostrils flare in annoyance. He lightly shakes his head. He's silent for a few moments and she thinks he's going to let it go. He's never saying what's on his mind anymore. She hates it.

"The big deal is," he starts rough but huffs in an attempt to expel some anger, "You don't trust me anymore. I'm going to protect you, Donna."

She's baffled for a second, surprised that he thinks this is what it all boils down to. She reaches over and, against her better judgment, grabs his hand. Sliding her fingers between his, she feels comforted by his presence. She doesn't think she could do this without him. He is the part of home that makes her feel safe.

"Of course I trust you," she says, "Doing this with you is better than doing this with anyone else."

His lips tighten and he nods slowly. He says, "I understand that you're scared, but you have to tell me when you contact _anyone_. We can't have any secrets or any surprises between us. We have to be a team, an impenetrable partnership, like we used to be."

She absently thinks of how ironic it is that he's asking her not to keep any secrets from him when their entire personal relationship is built on secrets and what they don't tell each other. All of the things that go unsaid hang in the air between them as she nods slowly to cut through the thickness of the unspoken.

Her hand begins to feel warm, sweating against his palm, and she retracts her hand. He looks away quickly, the back of his head covering the view out of the window. She absently licks her lips and turns away from him, wondering what she's supposed to say and how far back of her secrets he expects her to tell him. She resigns to silence for the entirety of their flight.

* * *

Harvey is tired. She knows this because he's walking slowly and his shoulders are slightly slumped and his hair isn't perfectly positioned on his head. His exhaustion is coupled with pain. She can tell that he is in pain because his teeth are gritted together and he refuses to consume anything other than water. His pain has also contributed to hunger cramps and low blood sugar. He hasn't said much, but when he has said something it has sounded increasingly irritated and quite snippy. His attitude is therefore influencing her to have an attitude.

And she thinks, _damn, she hates how he still so easily influences her moods_. It isn't anything out of the ordinary because they've been, well, in tune with one another for an extended period of time and old habits die hard, but she really wishes he weren't so grumpy. She's about two seconds away from putting him in check and that is not the way that she thinks this experience should start.

Needless to say, she's really wondering who in the hell thought them going undercover in witness protection as husband and wife was a good idea. Especially since they explicitly stated, repeatedly might she add, that they are not a couple. And Harvey's behavior matched with their inability to resolve their unspoken and unapproached issues certainly has her convinced that they will never be a couple. She feels the need to clarify, or reassuring herself rather, that she was and is not expecting them to become one during this undefined amount of time.

Despite that factuality, her concern for his well-being is off the charts. She's watching him rather carefully as he continues to insist, quite aggressively, to pull her bag with the rollers that his duffle bag is perched atop of and his laptop bag while she's basically only carrying her purse. He keeps making jabs at the size of her purse and how it could undoubtedly beat his laptop bag in a fight. She simply laughs to appease him. They have fought about less than that and now isn't the time to instigate an argument with him.

She follows her currently pretend husband from the terminal at LAX and is relieved when they are met by a TSA security guard and told to keep going to baggage claim where two officers are waiting for them. He still looks rather annoyed, like he's on the verge of losing his patience. He is a borderline live explosive and she is the only person who knows the secret to handling him.

As they near baggage claim, Harvey veers towards a man and a woman who look like they are straight out of a cop drama on prime time television. Donna is pretty sure she's seen how this episode goes: two cops, one is a leak who betrays them. She is not looking forward to the big finale on this one.

"Mister and Misses Jones," the rugged looking man greets. At least, Donna thinks, he isn't too bad to look at.

Harvey grunts in response. She doesn't want this to progress in such a negative manner so she lightly places a hand against his back, pads of her fingers pressing against his spine and making him stand a little taller. He recoils beneath her touch then, back arching like he's casually trying to relieve the pressure. She feels her mouth reflect a frown.

She removes her hand from the expanse of his back and thrusts it towards the gentleman then. She ignores the glance that Harvey tosses her. She says, "I'm Donna. Harvey's hands are a little full at the moment."

"I'm Officer Lansing," the woman says, cutting in and taking Donna's hand. There is an engagement ring on the blonde detective's hand that gleams in the sun. It occurs to Donna then that they will probably need to acquire wedding bands if this is going to be convincing. The woman squeezes Donna's hand a little too tightly and says, "And this is my partner, Officer Jensen."

Donna wouldn't be surprised if this man was her fiancé, if not at least sleeping together. Their attire matches too adequately and the lipstick stain on his collar matches the shade gracing the woman's lips. The woman's closet is a knock off version of Rachel's and the man's might equal Mike's…on a good day. Despite the officers' similarities to her friends back home, they clash in a particular way that Mike and Rachel do not. It is possible that they aren't even the betrothed at all. She hopes to god that Harvey is too tired to notice.

"Do you mind if we stop by a pharmacy?" Donna says, skipping the formalities, "Harvey here is in a lot of pain and we need to get the supplies to change his bandage."

"I'm fine," he insists, "I just need a bed so I can get some sleep."

"Don't listen to him," Donna says, her hand finding his bicep, "We need to get this bandage changed so it doesn't get infected. He will sleep after."

" ** _He_** ," Harvey interjects forcefully, "Can speak for himself."

Her fingernails dig into his arm and slide down the length of it, scratching in a soothing manner. She feels his muscles tighten beneath her fingertips then. Officer Lansing smiles politely and nods. Donna looks towards the floor then, the toe of Harvey's shoe absently scuffing at the tile.

"Can I help you with your luggage?" Officer Jensen offers. Harvey reluctantly agrees, extending the handle for her bag to the man. Officer Jensen smile, nodding as he takes the handle and steps towards the doors. He calls behind him, "I bet you're starving."

"I could eat," Harvey admits, stepping forward to follow their escort's lead. His arm quickly escapes her touch and she feels a little bit more terrified exiting the confines of an airport where she knows security guards are watching, especially without touching him for comfort. "Can you tell us where we're going?"

"We're taking you to Long Beach," Officer Jensen supplies. He tosses a grin over his shoulder and Donna shudders at the sight. This guy is creeping her out more than he's reassuring her.

"Please tell me I'll get a bed when I get there," Harvey says.

"Afraid not," Officer Lansing chimes in, "But we will get you some food and a trip to the pharmacy."

Donna smirks triumphantly at that as Harvey slows to let her catch up to his pace. He shakes his head at her as he reaches out and ushers her forward, his hand finding the small of her back and applying pressure. She thinks that he's purposefully teasing her, trying to cause a reaction, but she doesn't exactly know why or what reaction he expects.

She offers then to take his bag, silently motioning it forward by flexing her fingers, but he declines with a shake of his head. She can tell that he's growing agitated specifically at her helpfulness. He has never been one who accepted help so easily, and she suspects that because she is no longer his employee, he isn't a huge fan of her attempting to help him so much. His patience is running thin, but she'll keep trying to get through to him that he needs to accept her help, for old time sake.

He seems to relax a bit when they step outside and are met with fresh air. She can't even begin to count the amount of times she has wanted to grab his hand for comfort because she's terrified. She's masked her terror with annoyance, her panic with an overbearing concern. Instinctually, she wants to take care of him and the only way to stop herself from doing so is to put distance between them. That will be next to impossible, especially since she owes him so much.

They haven't really addressed the fact that he paid her salary for so long, and now he's literally thrown himself in front of a moving bullet for her. She doesn't even know how she could begin to repay him for that. She doesn't even know why she asked him to come with her. They hadn't received any real immediate threat and she could have just as easily declined the offer to go into witness protection as she accepted. They could have carried on with their lives, her working for Louis and him working with his multitude of employees (Rachel, Mike and Gretchen).

Maybe she had been guided by fear. Her fear overpowered the sensibility to put distance between her and Harvey, the distance she has tried putting between them for the last three and half months, trying to ignore his existence with failed date after failed date that she didn't really care went anywhere or not. She simply wanted a distraction; she wanted to forget that she tried to leave him behind.

She's over him. She's had 12 years to get over him and she didn't look back, didn't consciously think that there was a chance for them to have a future. She never asked him for something that he didn't want to give and he certainly didn't want to give it to her. Part of her suspects that he is still waiting for the right woman. Maybe she hadn't pushed him hard enough into the right woman's arms. He is a lion in the court room and a tiger in the bedroom. But as they walk to the car approximately 6 steps behind the officers, she has to remind herself that this is all pretend and she can have any man back home that she wants.

First there was that Michael guy. She had refused to call him Mike for argument sake, because she didn't want to feel like she was on a date with her best friend's fiancé. He was also increasingly boring by the second and if she had gone one more than one date with him then she would have killed herself.

Second there was Evan. He was cute but so very stupid. Not to mention he made her a cougar which she is not. The only time she could actually tolerate him was when he wasn't speaking. She did not go on a second date with him.

Lastly there was Henry. He was a mess. He made her want to blow her brains out. He was going through an awful divorce and when he found out she worked at a law firm he would only ask her legal questions. She definitely did not call him back.

All of them only managed to be a distraction for the evening and never quite as big a distraction as five minutes with Harvey. It has been a struggle to get over the idea of him, but she has managed, especially with Louis putting so much pressure on her to do things the way that he likes. She has had to readjust the way she does certain things, things she has been doing for the last decade that have worked perfectly fine.

They load their bags in the trunk of a car. Harvey opens the door to the backseat and she climbs in. She's met with the smell of sex and food that has been spilled on the seats. Her original impression of these two had been right. They fucked somewhere between the police station and the airport.

She pulls a face as Harvey slides into the backseat beside her. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, the knit between his brows creasing a wrinkle that will probably linger for a few minutes more. She motions to the officers getting in the car which prompts a smirk from her partner in hiding.

She shakes her head, her hand slamming down on his thigh. That wipes the smirk right off of his face as he covers the place she slapped. He's probably feeling a sting in his thigh right about now. She smirks in return, making him shake his head, instantly annoyed with her all over again.

"If we aren't going to Long Beach," Harvey says after Officer Jensen has started the car and is pulling out of the parking lot, "Where exactly are you taking us?"

"You are going to Long Beach," Officer Lansing replies.

Officer Jensen locks eyes with Donna over his shoulder and he says, "You just aren't staying in Long Beach."

Officer Jensen looks to be pushing the 30 marker. Officer Lansing, on the other hand, looks barely in the field and totally corruptible. Donna has learned though that the young will survive any way possible. She doesn't trust either of them, if she's being honest.

She looks over at Harvey then who seems to anticipate her reassurance. He's already reaching out and covering her hand with his own, a slight smile dressed on his mouth. His touch is non-committal, a light pat on her hand like he's trying to keep the distance. She can feel it in her gut, the pain, the feeling of a sharp knife stabbing her. After everything they've been through and he's just like a book she's read several times but a stranger nonetheless.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly, grave voice echoing in her head. She can count the number of times he has said that on one hand, but it's still more times than he's said to anyone else.

She looks down to his hand for a moment then back at his face. The crease in her forehead bends as she lightly shakes her head, confused about his random apology. She says, "For what?"

He swallows and absently licks his lips; he says, "You were right about the bandage. I need to accept your help because I can't do it on my own."

"Are you feeling okay?" She replies sarcastically. He gives her a look then and she nods in understanding. He feels tired and exposed and is in pain – no he isn't feeling okay. Her mouth folds into a frown, wishing she knew how to make his pain go away. "We'll be there soon and we'll get you cleaned up."

"Does that mean you'll give me a sponge bath?" He asks, eyes widening as a smirk beams across his mouth.

She shakes her head, the inevitable smile making an appearance. She says, "You're incorrigible."

"In the best way though," he adds.

* * *

He's been waiting and waiting and waiting and this has been the longest night of his life. That includes the two days he was sleep deprived during finals week his senior year of law school when he and Scottie alternated between two different types of cramming. If he's being honest, he had the day from hell at work yesterday and that doesn't even begin to address the eventful evening his brain hasn't even had an opportunity to register.

Not to mention, Officer Cool and Officer Horny have been driving him crazy for the last two hours with their inappropriate professional manner and their vomit inducing heavy petting. He detests public displays of affection more than he detests Louis which has been on the up and up lately. At least he hasn't had a panic attack in the past 12 hours. Progress is progress. And Donna, thankfully, hasn't brought it up again, yet, though he knows she will.

He's even more irritated that when they finally left the place that Officer Cool claimed had the best burgers in the entire world, which didn't, and finally stopped at the pharmacy at Donna's persistent request, they ended up at a ferry station somewhere in the middle of Long Beach. Not only will Officer Cool and Officer Horny refuse to give them a destination like they are terrified that he knows every number he's ever dialed (which isn't many, admittedly) off of the top of his head, but they won't even give him an ETA when all he really fucking wants to do is sleep.

Donna's hovering isn't helping one bit. If he were honest, and he's trying very hard to keep his mouth shut right now because he knows he is losing his patience and this is not how he wants this extended agreement to begin with them at odds which is the only reason he apologized, then he would tell her to back off. He knows she's only trying to help, but she is driving him crazy. He can't even begin to explain what he means by that.

He thinks about the things that have been covered in therapy. Breathing in and out, thinking….rationally and not thinking like, well, Louis. He can control his actions and his reactions. He will be someone Donna doesn't even recognize if he sticks to his rules.

"Hey," she says, coming from behind him. He glances at her over his shoulder, the startling sound of her voice making the ends of his arm hair tingle. The absence of her heels gives her the rather unfamiliar element of surprise. He tilts his chin upwards in acknowledgement. "We should change your bandage."

"They said every twenty-four hours," he replies. He knows that his annoyance is obvious by the way that her eyebrow arches challengingly. She sighs then and crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I'm sure it's fine."

"You're so thickheaded sometimes," she says.

Her own annoyance has flared up in full force. Her bags are at his feet as the officers sit a few yards away as they wait for the next boat to take them to Catalina Island. He's at least pleased that he finally has a destination.

"Donna," he says evenly, standing up and reaching for her arm. She doesn't recoil from his touch, which he thinks is a plus. "I'm not trying to fight with you. I'm just tired and I'm hurting. Everything is happening so fast. We haven't even really spoken in the last few months. How am I supposed to handle this?"

"I don't know," she says softly. She sits on the bench beside him and crosses one leg over the other. His gaze lands on her knee, the muscles of her thigh flexing as her leg bounces. Shit, he thinks, she's nervous. "We're in untreaded water."

"I don't know how to be around you," he admits.

She looks offended at this and he wants to apologize, but he can't apologize for his honesty. She swallows and pushes her hands into her hair. Her red locks look tired after she slowly pulls them out.

"Then why did you come?" She sounds angry now; much like the last few times they've tried to have a real conversation.

He stands up then, his gaze sharpening on her. He says, "I came because you asked me to. I do everything you ask me to do. Why don't you understand that?"

"Harvey," she says, gently.

He shakes his head in response. He cuts her off before she can say anything further. He says, "Look, I'm not happy that we've resorted to being like this. I gave you space because you wanted it – needed it or whatever, but we are here now and it is too late to turn back. We may have a lot left to talk about, but can't we just get through today first?"

She nods slowly. He turns away from her in search of something kin to fresh air.

* * *

Harvey doesn't say much in the hour long ride to the island. It…bothers her. She doesn't do well with tension. She doesn't know what to do with it, doesn't know where to place it. So she in turn just lets it settle in the space between them, like everything else they've left unresolved.

So once being dropped off at the hotel and checking in at the front desk, they make their way to the room. Regardless of their inability to get along at the moment, they do still have to be married for their identity to stay under wraps. She carries most of the bags because he's too tired to argue and in too much pain to take the initiative.

He leans against the doorframe as she pushes the key into the lock. Finally pushing it open, she steps inside. She stops to take a look at the room and notes exactly their first of many problems. There is one bed and there isn't even a couch for one of them to sleep on. He steps in behind her and stops when his chest collides with her shoulder.

"Shit," he says. He voices her exact thoughts.

She nods, dropping the bags to their feet. She echoes her own sentiments with a breathy, "Yeah."

The door clicks shut behind them and he steps forward, heading towards the bed. He sets his laptop bag on the floor and takes a seat on the bed. She wonders if she should say something about sharing the bed but she isn't sure that either of them are really ready to have that level of awkward conversation.

"I need some sleep," he says, rubbing at his eyes.

"Did you need me to do anything?" She asks.

He doesn't bother looking up at her and just shakes his head. She moves the bags closer to the dresser by the wall closest to the bathroom. He exhales a deep breath and it gets her attention. She looks at him, absently rubbing her palms on her legs.

He says, "What are you going to do?"

"I'll probably take a shower, get settled in," she replies with a shrug. He nods then, kicking his shoes off. They hit the floor with a thud. He stares at her and it makes her uncomfortable. His eyes are dark, tired, and his gaze feels like she's being punctured. "Seriously, Harvey, get some sleep. When you wake up, we will change your bandage."

"And if you're asleep?"

She offers him a small smile and says, "Then you'll wake me up."

He huffs but nods in agreement. He lays back on the bed, careful to apply more weight onto his left arm, and his eyes slowly close. She wonders why he didn't pull the bed back and get comfortable, but then she realizes they aren't in New York anymore and the temperature is much different this time of year. She watches him for a few moments to be sure he is comfortably settled in before she drags her bag into the bathroom so she can scrub the smell of travel off of her skin.


	3. Act II: Dust and Bones

It starts like this.

He wakes up because of the pain echoing in his bones. The brilliant Pacific sun has subsided, ultimately retiring for the day as night is bestowed upon them. He half expects Donna to be fast asleep on the other side of the bed like two civil adults who go way back. She isn't anywhere near him and his hopes are dashed. He'd hoped she wouldn't hate him when he told her the truth.

He pushes himself upright into a sitting position, a groan eliciting from the back of his throat, and sits on the side of the bed. He lifts his left hand and absently rubs at his eye, his right arm in too much pain to really bother trying to move it more than is necessary. He blinks a few times and realizes there is a cool breeze. His eyes follow the source of the breeze, the curtains swaying from the balcony doors being propped open.

He pushes himself to his feet and stumbles, an imbalance resting near his equilibrium. He licks at his lips as he narrows his gaze, the sharpening around his eyes allowing himself to make out the form leaning against the balcony rail with much more clarity. He stifles a yawn then, his muscles cramping with the urge to stretch.

"Hey," he says, his voice hoarse, as he steps forward. She turns ever so slightly to look at him, her face highlighted by the soft glow of the table light from inside the room. The stars behind her are clearer than he can ever remember seeing from any point in the city skyline and the waves behind her echo with a natural, peaceful disturbance. "What are you doing out here?"

"I'm…" she starts but trails off, leaning back against the rail then as her face comes into full view. She's dressed in a pair of jeans and a black top made out of silk material. He briefly thinks it would be soft to touch. Her feet are bare and she looks somewhat relaxed. She smiles gently then and says, "I'm taking in the view."

"This old thing?" He asks, gesturing to himself.

She offers him a pity laugh and lightly shakes her head. She turns back to the view of the waves crashing into the beach and he saddles up beside her, his hands circling the wooden rail as he braces himself against it. The silence surrounds them as they look off into the distance, her more intently than him.

"I've never seen a view so beautiful," she says slowly.

He turns to look at her then, taking in her appearance before him. Her neck is long, collar bones peeking out of her shirt, and jaw looks relaxed. He wants to reach out and touch her skin to fully feel the weight of her, to understand the expanse of space she consists in. His gaze traces over the outline of her form, taking in the slight pout that has conquered her lips.

"No," he mutters. He thinks about her lips on the corner of his mouth, the kiss that ricocheted throughout his body as his skin puffed in victory. His lips still tingle from the almost. She's sliding her gaze over to him before he can angle his body away from her, unsuccessfully planting the façade that he had never been looking at her. He adds, "I've never seen anything more beautiful."

He slowly looks back at her as though never being caught and he feels a sense of understanding pass between them as her threat dies before it can even touch her lips. Her customary ' _Harvey, don't_ ' or ' _Harvey, please_ ' or simply ' _Harvey_ ' like she wasn't asking him to spill it all out between them months ago. But he has nothing to tell because she has asked him time and time again not to.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" She asks.

"It wouldn't let me sleep," he admits. He swallows. He says, "Did you, uh, did you sleep at all?"

She shakes her head lightly, as she pushes off of the rail. She looks better rested than he does and he truly doesn't know how she does it. He's so tired for so many reasons. She taps on wood of the rail for a brief moment before she shrugs. He must have had a look on his face that says it all.

"I made sure to get you some food, just in case you woke up. Did you know everything shuts down here? Even room service," she says.

He nods then. He says, "So did you at least eat?"

The breeze picks up a bit more as she gives him a disheartened nod. He doesn't believe her. She isn't a very good liar. She says, "I had a coffee."

"That explains it," he replies. He offers her a smile, lips tight as he pushes off of the rail and turns to go back inside. She doesn't follow, just rests her hands where they were. He takes a seat back on the bed. His mouth flattens out and he blinks slowly. "Would you mind helping me change this bandage?"

She perks up at that. He watches her throw her shoulders back as a pleased grin threatens to spread across her mouth. She says, "I thought you would never ask."

He lays his palms flat on the bed as Donna makes her way into the hotel room and takes off towards the bathroom to retrieve the plastic sack with the items they had purchased at the pharmacy. He expels a breath as she sets the bag in the center of the bed and sits beside him, one of her knees pulled up between them. Her shin presses into his hip and the rest of her is close enough that he can feel her warmth.

"Can you…?" He asks, trailing off as he gestures to his sweater.

He watches her swallow before she nods, her fingers flexing at her thighs only briefly before she reaches for the hem of his sweater. He lifts his left arm above his head, her fingernails absently dragging over his torso, and he inhales a deep breath. Once the sweater is over his head, it's as easy as Donna pulling the material towards her to free his injured arm. He hisses as she does this, the sting in his skin sharper than he had anticipated.

"Sorry," she says.

He shakes his head and says, "You didn't shoot me."

"But I am the one who took off your shirt," she replies.

He laughs gently, the noise getting caught in the back of his throat. He says, "If I weren't in so much pain, I would have a witty retort for that."

"In your wildest dreams," she volleys.

And she's right. His wildest dreams start pretty much exactly like this. She rips off his shirt and he kisses her hungrily, like he's trying to remind her of all of the promises he made her and he kept. She's hesitant at first but ultimately gives in, melting into the kiss like gravity keeps pulling them together. He usually isn't experiencing such an intense amount of pain either.

"You're just changing the bandage, right?" He asks.

"Yes," she bites, "I know. I can't get it wet for another twenty-four hours."

His gaze fixates on her mouth, watching as her lips circle around the word wet like she's teasing him. He absently licks his lips as she unwraps the bandage from his arm. He says, "Stop."

She pauses with her long fingernails pressing into his skin just beneath the white gauze. Her eyes dart to his, confused and pressing him for answers. He wants to kiss her then, like he's wanted to kiss her for months. Wants to remember what it feels like to have her so close that he can breathe her in. Her lips on his cheek just aren't enough. Not anymore. He's never said this out loud, but he knows that it's there. She knows it too. She has to.

His mouth hangs open for the briefest of moments before he says, "I'll do it."

"Harvey, don't be ridiculous. I'm already helping you," she counters. She sounds annoyed, like she wants to scratch his eyes out – like a cat. Cats are stupid. (He takes this distraction in stride because he sure as hell needs one.) "Quit being a baby and just sit still."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to," she interjects before he can finish. She huffs then, her hands going back to the task. He settles with keeping his mouth shut and not saying anything. If he keeps his head down then his mind can't wander either. He picks a spot on the wall to stare at. "You know, you asked me for help. That's why I'm doing this. You told me what you wanted, what you expect out of me, and that's what I want."

"Oh please," he counters with a laugh of disbelief, "You've never really wanted to hear what I really want to say."

"Harvey, don't," she says. _Right on cue_ , just like he'd expected. He rolls his eyes then. She pushes her thumbs into his arm and gets a good look at his wound then. He stupidly looks back at her, his gaze softening. It's so much easier to be angry with her when he isn't looking at her. "This doesn't have to be a fight. I was just saying that I like it when you tell me directly what you want or need rather than a guessing game."

"You've never had to guess," he replies. She seems resolute suddenly, twisting her mouth. He knows that she's been caught, that the particular look on her face is one that she makes when he has stumped her. She reaches into the sack for the new roll of gauze, tearing up the package with unprecedented anger. He says, "What did that thing ever do to you?"

She pauses then, looking up at him. She takes the roll of gauze out and peels it open, disconnecting the white fluff from its counterparts. She begins wrapping it around his arm. He keeps trying to make it lighthearted but it never stays there for long.

She says, "I got you some food."

"Thanks," he says quietly.

She doesn't press it. Her usual game of _'what for'_ and _'for what'_ is dead on her tongue before he can even blink. She usually likes to push him just to see how far he is willing to go with her. She should know better by now that she's important to him without some lame way of him saying so.

She secures the gauze into place and her warm hands leave his skin. He hears her rummaging through the plastic sack on the bed behind him and his eyes follow the noise. She looks tired and he briefly wonders if she's even eaten or if the coffee is really the only thing he's consumed.

"Did you eat anything or did you just have coffee?" He asks again, quietly.

"I wasn't hungry," she replies. She looks up at him then, her lips tight in a feigned smile. He wonders what's going on with her and why she didn't eat. He lightly shakes his head and she has to know that he doesn't believe her. She huffs and angles her body away from him. "All that time in the plane fucked with my equilibrium."

He laughs then, the vulgar sound coming out of her dainty mouth hitting him just right so he can't control his laughter. She glares at him. He takes a moment, but he straightens up eventually.

"You need to eat something," he says. He pushes himself off of the bed, his leg muscles flexing despite their failure to cooperate at the moment. He realizes then that their overprotective and insistent need to see that the other is taken care of has to mean something. "Pumping yourself with caffeine isn't going to keep that skin looking fresh."

"This looks the way it does," she says, gesturing to her face, "Because of man's greatest creation: makeup."

"I don't believe you," he replies.

* * *

She is a fraction of a fraction of who she used to be. She means this in the simplest of terms. She was once a girl with dreams but those dreams were crushed by the realm of responsibility and practicality. Her father used to preach, ironically so, practicality at her until he was blue in the face while her mother sat back and watched quietly from a corner. Her mother's backbone had broken with the harshest loss of their family, the move from their Connecticut estate to their upstate New York household where she and her siblings called home until they embarked into their own worlds of obligations.

Practicality rings true for her even amidst her blindness to her boss and, though over a decade of impractical practicality, she has held steadfast to her backbone. Donna is uncertain of who she would rather be like – her mother or her father. Harvey, on the other hand, is definitely like her father, preaching rules that he doesn't follow and risking it all for things that really don't matter.

Maybe that had always been the underlying problem… He isn't willing to risk things that really matter to him because he wants to keep all of his cards close to his chest, but she's watched him risk everyone and everything else in front of him time and time again. His refusal to risk anything with her or for her has left her reeling. Though she knows him, she is unfamiliar with his unwillingness to risk anything.

She supposes that's where she lost track of him somehow. A man with values he holds close to his chest but the risk still comes easy. And she's spent enough time mulling over their decade long situation and has come to the conclusion that he just isn't in love with her if he isn't willing to risk anything to be with her because he is a man who always goes after what he wants.

She's realized over the course of the last few months (amidst her binge drinking and her inability to eat food properly) that she has taken his decision to not be in love with her way too personal. However, the realization still didn't bring back her appetite and his so far constant interrogation on her food intake is driving her mad. They have spent the better course of the last two days alternating their sleep schedules and staring out at the ocean from their balcony in silence.

Harvey has mostly been sleeping to get through the pain. Her time has been mostly spent sitting on the balcony and going out to get food to make sure that Harvey has something to eat. He's been tired lately, even before the mishap on the street. They've been on decent terms but they haven't particularly spoken beyond pleasantries. She knows him well enough to know that he needs the time off work just as much as it has been demanded of him.

She can hear the echoes of his breathing crash against the ocean and she finds it comforting. She momentarily hates herself for the vicious cycle she keeps repeating over and over again. He does not love her yet she keeps letting herself get drawn in, caring for him and looking after him and begging him to come with her when they are just friends. They will only ever be friends and he will never return those stupid feelings she tried to bury years ago.

She turns to look at him over her shoulder, his position looking extremely uncomfortable as he sleeps. He looks like he's in pain, like the mental and physical ramifications he is dealing with is just too difficult for his subconscious to come to turns with. She wishes she could soothe him but she doesn't know how. It isn't her place to ease his troubles and he doesn't want her to. He is headstrong and has a strong will. He can be unfathomably unbearable at times.

"I'm not sleeping," he says groggily. She doesn't look away from him. Contrary, she sharpens her gaze on him, suspicious that he's not even really awake. So she says nothing for about a minute when he slides an eye open. "I can feel your eyes on me and they're burning a hole in my skull."

"Sorry," she grumbles. She pushes herself to her feet and walks over to the doorway. She hugs her kimono closer to her chest and leans against the frame. She shrugs half-hazard then. She says, "I was just worried about you."

"It's hot as hell in here," he replies.

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. She's freezing to death and he has beads of sweat lining his forehead. She pushes off of the doorframe and enters further into the room. He sits up, his face squeezing as he groans. She stops in front of him, her hands reaching up to his forehead. She wipes at the sweat lining his hairline before pressing her wrist against his skin.

"Jesus Christ, Harvey," she barks, "You're burning up."

"My shoulder's too stiff," he mutters. She looks down at him and notes that he's drenched in sweat. She's not a doctor, but if he has a fever then his stitches could be infected. "Can you help me take my shirt off?"

"Of course," she replies a little too quickly.

Her hands find the hem of his shirt and she tugs at the grey cotton. He moves his left arm through the arm hole. She widens the neck hole to take it off over his head, and finally pulls the shirt completely off of his right arm. She inhales in unison with him, the sharp intake of breath for two very different reactions. She uses his shirt to wipe at the sweat around his neck and chest area.

"Hold still," she says, moving towards the bathroom. She gets a washcloth and wets it with cold water. She rings it out over the sink. She turns back towards the bed and, crawling across the mattress behind him, presses the cold washcloth against the back of his neck. "Maybe this will help."

She sweeps the wet washcloth across his skin as she presses her palm into his good shoulder to help balance herself. She moves the washcloth over the back of his neck, and down his spine to the small of his of his back. She pushes it across his waistline all the way to his torso. Her front rests against his back as she reaches around him to slide the washcloth up his sternum. She rests the weight of herself on him as she moves her other hand to the washcloth to continue the movement, her right hand pressing into his ribcage so she doesn't accidentally hit his arm. She then pushes the washcloth up his throat before holding it against his forehead.

If she didn't feel his chest rising and falling beneath her fingertips she wouldn't even know for sure that he is actually breathing. Her fingers twitch against his skin and absently tap at his ribcage. He squirms a little at the movement, maybe like she'd accidentally tickled him or something. She peers around him to see if it's helping at all but when she does, he turns his head to look at her.

They don't make eye contact, not exactly. She's busy studying his eyes and trying to determine the state of his pupils (not that she's a doctor or anything, but she has dated her fair share of doctors) as he angles his torso more towards her. His skin tightens beneath her fingers with the movement. His eyes darken as his gaze hones in on her slightly parted lips.

She braces herself for the inevitable contact. Her fingers preemptively dropping the washcloth onto the bed as he leans towards her. His lips touch hers, and her hand settles on his jaw. His left hand slips between them as he turns more towards her. She feels his tongue flick against her lip as his hand presses against her stomach. His palm flattens out against the material there, her lips parting beneath his silent reprieve. Her nails dig into his ribs. She feels something brush across the back of her hand and recoils in surprise. He pulls back from her really fast, wincing. She barely had the taste of his tongue and it's already gone.

"Shit," she murmurs, realizing that she'd hit his hand and made some sort of pain shoot up his arm, "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"It's fine," he replies softly, "It was an accident."

She loosens her grasp on him, settling back into a sitting position as she rests onto her legs behind him to take the pressure off of her knees. She absently swipes at her face, silently chastising herself for kissing him. He's in pain and probably delusional – meanwhile, she's taking advantage of him. She rubs at her forehead for just a moment before she reaches for the washcloth again.

"Was the cold washcloth helping?"

She doesn't even wait around for a response, just pushes off of the mattress and moves back to the bathroom for more cold water. She looks over at him, the sound of his annoyed huff somehow managing to be louder than the running water. She tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear as she peers at him. She's really concerned about his sudden fever.

"Harvey," she tries again. He clears his throat loudly. He says her name with the same tone she used. She turns off the water and rings out the rag. "You're scaring me."

He turns slightly to look at her then. "I'll be fine."

"Lay on your stomach," she says, gesturing for him to lie down.

She moves around to the other side of the bed and sits on it beside him. She pulls her legs up as she leans against the headboard and presses the washcloth against the back of his neck. She holds it there for about a minute before she moves the washcloth across his shoulders. She peeks at his face. She thinks he's fallen back asleep.

This is going to be a long night.

* * *

Her head clears. She must have fallen asleep or something. She stills her movements, feeling her hand rise and fall, and she realizes that her hand is resting on his bare back. She breathes out a sigh of relief once she comprehends that his breathing speed is regular.

She isn't a doctor but she has dated a few of them, and they always seemed to think their weird pulse and wrists and breathing things were cute or quirky. They weren't cute or quirky. It was annoying. She always felt like she was being sized up.

She finally opens her eyes, comforted enough by his involuntary movement that she isn't terrified by what she might see. His skin feels warm still, like he maybe still has a fever. The room is still dark except for the light in the bathroom. She smooths her hand across his back as she rolls over, resting on her back. She's really worried about him.

She watches him for a few minutes before she sits up and directs all of her energy into something else to busy herself. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. She had meant to stay awake and keep an eye on him. But something about the steady rhythm of his breathing must have lulled her sleep.

She crawls out of bed and grabs a blanket before she heads to the balcony. The balcony is small. It only has two small chairs and a tiny table on it that serves as a dinner table. These can't be living quarters. This has to be a temporary arrangement. They can't be staying here for too long.

She's freezing still. She never realized that the ocean got so cold at night, especially on the west coast. The blanket is doing very little to keep her warm, but Harvey is burning up still. She sighs and thinks that maybe the reason she fell asleep so easily is because the bed beside him was so warm and welcoming. She didn't even need a blanket even though the doors were open as wide as they are now.

She's still terrified, but now she has more to be concerned about. People are after them, bad people who take no prisoners. There isn't a way out of this unless these men are imprisoned or, worse, killed. Not to mention, now she has to worry about Harvey's well-being. And try not to think about that kiss, about whatever is happening here.

Not like she can really put her finger on it at this point. They've only been gone for a day and a half. They've done very little talking. And they honestly have a lot to work out, a lot more than they can probably successfully work out if they even give it a shot. Not that Harvey is one of those who is particularly keen on talking about things as 'mundane' as feelings. But he's exposed himself pretty deeply with her before, just never on the subject of, well, her. And, hell, she has rarely pushed. Really only the one time did she push, and she knows that at first he'd really only thought she was leaving in an attempt to manipulate him.

Part of her was.

* * *

He wakes up to a cold at the back of his neck with a rather quick movement of the cloth down the length of his spine. He shivers at the movement, and her thumb brushes against his skin just at the small of his back. He groans against his will. He tucks his face into his shoulder as an embarrassment washes through him.

He lifts his head and faces her, her face barely coming into view. Her lips are pursed, eyebrows furrowed; she has that same look she gets when she is incredibly focused on her top priorities. There's a warmth in the pit of his stomach at the thought of being her top priority again.

"How long have you been up?" He asks, voice gravelly.

"A couple of hours," she says. She smiles knowingly, like she knows he's in pain. He musters his energy and rolls over onto his back, her hand recoiling at the very last second and maneuvering to not brush across his stomach. "I'm going exploring to find some more stuff for you."

He clears his theist and says, "You don't have to take care of me."

"Harvey," she says, his name low in her mouth, "You took a bullet for me."

"Seriously, Donna," he says evenly, almost as forceful as usual. He doesn't even have the energy to fight her but he is going to expend every last bit of it until the moment he dies. She does not owe him anything. She does not have to restore his faith in the human race, in the female gender. She is entitled to her space. But she asked him to come for a reason, right? He adds, "I'll come with you. That's what I'm here for, right?"

She sighs, annoyed but voicing her overall concession to him. She says, "Right."

"Okay," he replies, with a slight smirk and a full nod. He pushes himself into a sitting position with a groan. He throws his legs over the side of the bed and takes a moment to collect himself. He says, "Just let me go to the bathroom and get a shirt on, then we can go."

He stands up with a great pain shooting through his body and proceeds to stretch, like that will kink out the pain and let him continue to live his life. It doesn't much help, and the sun is blinding him into a squint. He can feel her eyes on him as he hobbles to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him and once inside he turns to full face the mirror.

He shakes his head as he pushes the waistband of his pants over his hip and just a little down his thigh. The cloth rubbing against his leg stings quite a bit. He takes a long hard look in the mirror, the gauze covering his skin just a tinge red. He pulls the gauze from his leg, taking a closer look at the wound. It doesn't look too bad. He tosses the gauze into the trash and reaches for some toilet paper. He replaces the heavy duty gauze with the light duty toilet paper, looking around for that medical tape Donna had hours ago.

He should tell her about this, but he can't. He can't have her worried anymore. He can't be her responsibility anymore. She shouldn't have to deal with another wound that he has. It isn't her job to care for him, to coddle his wounds. He has seriously overstepped their boundaries over the years.

So he sighs in relief when he spots the tape on the counter and tapes the toilet paper to his thigh. He'll be fine. It's not even really bleeding anymore. He stands upright and replaces the cringe on his face with a hearty smile. When he opens the bathroom door, she's already standing on the other side with one of his shirts in her hands.

"Need a hand?" She asks.

He laughs at her joke. He's laughing to hide the pain.

* * *

He's a half step behind her as they explore the small island town in search of a drug store or something of that nature. She's walking a little fast, especially since he's too busy trying to keep his steps in line to keep his pain under wraps. She was right about one thing, it's a little chilly for the sun to be so active on an island such as this.

If only he could treat it like a getaway weekend with the woman he doesn't want to lose. But he can't. He's too busy hiding truths from her. Which he knows that she hates so fucking much. She will be pissed when she finds out, but he can't worry her anymore.

His gaze sticks on the way that her hair is caught in the wind, waving dangerously just inches from his face. He wants to run his hands through her hair, just to feel the softness of it against his fingertips. But she's walking faster, putting so much distance between them. He just can't keep up with her. She seems to notice that he isn't hot on her heels because she turns around and eyes him precariously, like she doesn't believe that he's okay. And he isn't. As time has passed, he's really done a piss poor job of hiding it.

"Do you need to go back to the room?" She asks. She's judging him. He can feel that judgmental gaze planted on him like she's about to give him the third degree.

"I'm fine," he snaps, picking up his pace. He cringes, really cringes, and she can see for the briefest of moments just how much pain he's in. She stops moving and he feels like he's back in that interrogation room.

"Are you taking those pain pills?" She asks, "It would probably help with the pain."

"The pain is fine, Donna," he says with an annoyed sigh, "I'm fine, really. Why won't you believe me?"

"I know you, Harvey," she says solemnly; she almost sounds sad, "Just because we've been going through stuff, doesn't mean I don't know you anymore."

He thinks they look like a couple who's been falling apart and are making a last ditch effort to save their marriage. He suddenly starts laughing at that thought. He can't help laughing even harder when she arches her eyebrow, intrigued yet annoyed at the random outburst.

"Donna," he says calmly, "We sound like a couple trying to save our marriage."

"Isn't that who we're supposed to be?" She replies.

She looks coy and not at all serious. He's a little annoyed about it as he's been trying to find a way to talk to her for months but she just won't give. He huffs and lightly shakes his head. He wants to yell at her in the middle of the street but he never will, not at her.

"You don't have to be so stubborn," he says. He locks eyes with her, challenging her with everything inside of him. If he could for just one moment get her to stop being so stubborn. He swallows there and says, "We could maybe have a conversation for once."

"I'm the only stubborn one," she bites the question out, "You never want to have the conversations that matter."

"Donna," he says, too even to realize that he's really pushing her nerves, "I always want to talk to you. You have no idea just how much of me derives from you. But Doctor Agard said I have to accept the terms and conditions of things when people really matter to me."

"What does that mean?" She says quietly, a shock forming on her face.

"It means you wanted to be colleagues so I had to respect that boundary," he says.

"I didn't," she stops to breathe, the hesitation so clearly tending her shoulders at the possibility that maybe just maybe he's thought all along that's what she wanted. She shakes her head lightly. She says, "That wasn't what I meant, Harvey. I knew you couldn't be committed to me so I couldn't be your girlfriend and your secretary. It would have been too complicated."

"It's complicated anyway," he says evenly. He hears the annoyance seep out into the space between them, like he's annoyed about all of the years lost. He doesn't even remember the initial topic of conversation. He's just in so much pain. "Let's take a break."

She looks taken aback for a moment as he stops mid thought. He can't even stand anymore. He feels so lightheaded suddenly with so much pain racking through his body. He huffs and takes a few steps back, finding a sturdy brick wall to rest against.

"Harvey," she mutters, more concerned than he's ever heard her before. The tone of her voice shakes him to the core. He looks up, not even realizing he had looked away, and he can barely see her. She's blurry. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he insists, "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Stop keeping things from me," she says, voice breaking. He feels a sting in his chest and he feels like his heart is breaking. Whatever this feeling is, he does not like it. He feels a puff of breath against his cheek before her hand presses against his side. She adds, "Please."

"I just don't want you to worry," he replies, softly. He blinks once and feels a hot tear slide down his cheek. She becomes a little more clear and he suddenly realizes he's crying. He hates it when she sees him cry because then she starts crying and it becomes a whole thing.

"I'm going to worry, Harvey," she says there. His name from her mouth stings him for some reason. He doesn't want her to worry, but he should know better by now. Part of him just thought... "I never stopped caring about you."

"We don't have to talk about it," he replies decidedly. She sighs heavily to reveal her annoyance but drops it anyway. Her hand stays fixed on his side, fingers pressing a little too hard against his ribs only a few inches from his heart. He hopes she can't feel his heart beating faster beneath her fingertips. "I think I just need some food. And you definitely need some food."

* * *

They find a place called Original Jack's Country Diner to grab a bite to eat. It's a breakfast place on the island, and the menu offers them the protein that they both really seem to need right now. She's beginning to look tired. He knows that if he tells her so, she's going to nearly lose it on him, but he needs to keep her in line just as well as she does to him. Besides, he's only here because she asked him to be.

"Will you try to get some sleep when we get back?" He asks, his annoyance quite obvious.

"Fine, fine, whatever," she mutters, literally waving him off.

She looks away from him and he can tell that she's highly annoyed. She's ready to agree to anything to just shut him up. He gets it. She's been annoying him, too. They've only been cooped up together for a few days and they're already on the verge of killing on another.

"You know, Donna," he starts. He pauses to sigh and absently wipes his hand across his face. Her sharp gaze quickly turned back to him. He regains himself, a sharp pain shooting through his leg. He expels a breath, his forehead beginning to feel clammy as he feels both hot and cold at the same time. "I just, I care about you, okay? You asked me to come and I did because I care about you."

"You're hurt," she reminds him. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest and he isn't entirely happy about it. She's closing herself off from him. He wonders if it hasn't anything to do with that kiss. "You should be worrying about you, not me."

"Has this not always been our problem?" He asks suddenly, "You thinking I don't care about you like you care about me? Which is bullshit, by the way. I mean, you kissed me just a few hours ago, and now you're acting like it never happened."

"Actually, you kissed me," she corrects, "And I'm not acting like it never happened, Harvey. I'm just trying to pretend that it never happened, just like everything else that happens between us."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He snaps. He feels like she's trying to pin this all on him when it isn't even his fault. He can tell though that she doesn't want to talk about it. She's squirming in her seat. He sighs in defeat. "Nevermind. You obviously don't want to talk about it."

"This is not on me," she refutes, "You're the one who told me you love me and couldn't follow through with it."

His face instantly falls. He is not happy with the way she's acting as though she was completely innocent in any of this. He's always the one taking them a step or two forward and she brings them anywhere from two to three steps back. Every move he makes, she's resistant. One day he will tell her exactly what's on his mind and she'll be forced to make some decisions.

He opens his mouth to retaliate when the waitress returning with some food interrupts him. His body needs the food way more than he needs to speak what's on his mind. He quickly shuts his mouth and sweeps up his fork, extremely eager to consume something his body needs. He looks up at her, watching her extreme gratuity as she interacts with the waitress. It reminds him of his manners.

* * *

They step outside of the diner and they're instantly greeted with a gentle shower in the morning air. The light dust quickly turns into light rain. She stands under the awning and looks out, trying to determine how long it's going to be raining. Back in New York, there would never be a surprise rainfall.

"Shit," he mutters to her right. She turns to look at him, eyebrows furrowed with concern. He shouldn't get his wound wet. It risks infection.

The rest of their meal had been eaten in silence. She has a lot to say to him, a lot that she's built up over the years but hasn't had the courage to say, and she really doesn't know if she will be able to say anything. He's injured. He got injured in an altercation trying to protect her and she didn't even get a scratch. She can't approach the subject matter. He has to do it.

"We could wait it out," she suggests.

He sighs. He says, "I'm not feeling great."

She angles her entire body towards him. She watches as he pushes his hand into his stomach, favoring one side of his torso. He doesn't typically admit any vulnerability. She has to get him back to the hotel. As fast as possible.

"Okay, I'll go find an umbrella. You wait here," she says.

She tosses him another glance as he leans heavily against the doorframe of the diner. She's concerned about him. He seems to becoming weaker and weaker as time goes by. The more sleep he gets, the more lethargic he feels. She's going to pay a lot of attention to him.

She runs down the sidewalk, looking for a stand that might have an umbrella. While she's looking, it only seems to rain harder. She finally finds one, pays the man with the twenty she has in her pocket. It's the only cash she has. Harvey has the rest. She's lucky she even had it.

She turns to the downpour again, pushing the contraption open to shield her for the hard rainfall. She finds him, slumping even more against the entryway of the diner. She offers him a small, reassuring smile that he tries to return but can't seem to muster. He reaches for the handle of the umbrella, but she shakes her head.

"I've got this," she replies. She holds it tightly in her left hand and swoops her right hand around his waist. He gives her a look as he stands upright, and she rolls her eyes in response. She pushes her fingers into his hip and he hisses loudly. "Lean on me."

He gives her a long look, no doubt battling with his pride, before he concedes. He drapes his arm across her shoulders, leaning on her a bit more. They begin to slowly walk out into the rain, the pellets hitting her around the ankles. Good thing she changed into a pair of jeans, but her feet are wet and freezing already.

It takes them a lot longer to get to the hotel lobby than it normally would. Part of her wants to press him for answers, maybe a hint as to why he's getting worse rather than better. She leads him up to the room. She barely has him sitting on the bed before his eyes drift closed.

"Harvey," she says sharply, hands circling his shoulders. His eyes pop open quickly. She doesn't understand what's happening. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says, quickly. He sucks in a deep breath and releases it. He shakes his head quickly like he's trying to spark himself awake. "It's fine. I'm fine."

He waves her off.

"I'm just tired," he adds.

She nods slowly, leaning down in front of him. She pulls his shoes off and sets them on the floor, soles pushed together. She looks up at him. His eyes are only open a crack, both of his hands grasping onto the edge of the mattress like he's holding on for dear life. She does the only thing she can think of.

She lays her hands on his thighs near his knees. He quirks an eyebrow at her. She swallows the thick film of saliva that's gathered at the base of her throat. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth. She pushes her weight into her palms and makes herself taller.

She presses her lips against his. He seems shocked and uncertain on what to do. Her left hand leaves his leg and she touches his neck, cupping his face in her hand. She's gentle, only lips, until his tongue flits against her top lip. She widens her mouth expectantly, but nothing else happens. He doesn't deepen the kiss any further. In fact, he does the opposite. He pulls back, nearly breathless.

"Okay," she mutters softly, hand brushing through his hair beside his ear, "You lay back and get some rest."

He nods slowly, clearly unable to fight any longer. She presses her palms against his sides, guiding him back in the bed so he can fully spread out. He tries to scoot more to one side to leave room for her, but he doesn't seem to have the energy. She smiles softly, tears beginning to form in her eyes.

She sits on the bed beside him, slowly running her hands over his chest and face and through his hair until his breathing slows to an even sound. She lays her hand on his chest then, feeling for his breathing. She knows he would say she's overreacting, but she doesn't think she is. She gives it a few minutes, her with her hand on his chest and her back against the headboard, before she pushes herself up off of the bed. She grabs her key card and shoves it into her pocket.

* * *

"Excuse me," she says the man in a lobby. "Is there an on-call doctor or something that I can get sent to my room?"

"There's a medical center open until six," he replies.

"That won't work," she says quietly, "Look, my husband is stubborn. And he's in a lot of pain. I don't think we could even get there if we tried."

"Do you need me to call an ambulance?" He asks.

"Here's the thing," she replies, "He has a lot of pride and, full disclosure, I think he's going into shock. I'm not a doctor or anything, so if it happens to be nothing and we call an ambulance, he will not be happy."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the man mutters, "What are you asking me to do?"

"Fuck it," she mumbles to herself, "Call an ambulance."


End file.
